Lately, Cárcel’s dreams had been overrun by you. He sees you marrying, ascending to the position of princess, and dying on your miserable pedestal, too far out of reach from him. He sees bloodshot eyes and your composure slipping, slipping, slipping, until it’s too late to pick up the pieces of your perfect mask.

After waking up from his nightmare, Cárcel wastes not a moment longer as he bolts from his guest room in the palace to yours. The two of you don’t have any sort of relationship, nothing solid upon which he could stand. Coming to you in the middle of the night like this was a shot in the dark, but even so, he refused to ignore the warning signs his dreams were feeding him.

Cárcel raps on your door until you finally open it, glad that the servants of your wing were scarce and likely resting this time of night. “Don’t marry him,” he says breathlessly, heart thrumming with adrenaline. “It won’t make you happy. None of it will.” He swallows back the lump in his throat. “Run away with me.”